


Castle of Glass

by KelticCat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post Reichenbach, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-02-13
Packaged: 2017-11-29 02:51:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelticCat/pseuds/KelticCat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John isn’t taking Sherlock’s death well. But one singer in a bar and one song can show him what he’s missing. And what he missed. “That BASTARD!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Castle of Glass

**Author's Note:**

> I was listening to this song and was thinking over The Reichenbach Fall episode. I then realized that Waston isn't as big as a fool as everyone thinks and just needs a little push. This is the result. Edited as of 2/17/12.

**Chapter 1**

**Take me Down to the Riverbed  
**

 

            John stared at the amber liquid in his glass without really seeing it. Instead he saw Sherlock. In his mind’s eye he relived his best friend as he was falling, falling, and _hitting_ the ground. Blood, blood, blood everywhere, never stopping as it poured out from the various broken places on the body as it was carried away. He couldn’t even call the body by his name. It just didn’t make sense! He figured Moriarty had pulled something, something that John had missed, but _why_ would Sherlock affirm Moriarty’s lies? _Why would he throw himself off the roof?_

            John frowned at the glass darkly at that thought. He had come to the bar to drown his sorrows, not relive them. Sadly, the liquor was not doing its job. John picked up the glass, ready to slam it back and leave, when a blond woman slid up into the chair next to him. “Henry, I’ll have whatever he’s having and get him another,” she informed the barman, passing over the needed funds. She then turned to John and shot him a thin smile. “Indulge a girl in a friendly toast solider?”

            “I’m not a soldier,” he replied instantly.

            The woman’s thin, red painted lips, twitched in her effort to hide a true smile. “Indulge me anyway?” she requested.

            John nodded and finished his drink while the barmen prepared them another. He used the distraction to look her over properly. She was a pretty thing, not to thin, not to husky, wearring a knee length plaid skirt that emphisied her toned legs and a red graphic t-shirt. Her long legs had artistically ripped stockings covering them to keep her modest and she wore steel toed boots comfortably. From her outfit alone he could tell she was used to being ready to fight in anything. Her long blond hair had been braided away from face, showing her expressive blue eyes and the light, artistic make up while keeping her hair out of her eyes should she be in a fight. From her accent he placed her from America, though he couldn’t say where. She seemed to realize he was observing her and gave him a small wink. “Why the drink?” he asked her after a moment.

            “It’s a toast,” she corrected, a flash of pain entering her eyes. “And you are the only army man in this place who could possibly get it.”

            “I’m not a soldier,” he said again, this time a little more harshly. He was trying to escape his pain, not relive it damn it!

            And once again he got that little lip twitch, though this one last a little bit longer. “No,” she agreed, looking him over. She shifted in the chair to cross her legs and propped her elbow on the bar as she stared at him. If she was going to talk, it seemed she was going to do it properly. “You are a soldier and a doctor. Amy medic. Field army medic.” John’s heart clenched at that. Sherlock had done this, this analysis of knowing him with one look. Only he wasn’t so polite. Seeing the look of pain and wonder in his eyes the woman informed him, “You look exactly like my father and brother did when they finally retired. Can’t shake the training and can’t let go of the thrill of combat. And you’ve lost someone, someone recent. The pain is raw in your eyes.”

            “You can see all that?” John said, looking at her properly.

            The woman took the glasses the bartender made and slid one over. “Yes,” she sighed before she lifted her glass to him in the form of a salute. “Here’s to the soldier who fights and loves – may he never lack for either. To those who we love and have lost. May God grant then entry to heaven, so they don’t take over Hell just for kicks. They are not angels, only men who have fallen and missed the ground.”

            John raised his glass to meet hers with a soft clink before they took a long drink of the bourbon. Both sighed when the liquor burned down their throats and warmed their stomachs. John then turned to the woman with a long stare. “Who have you lost then?” he asked curiously.

            The woman played with the glass, causing the amber liquid inside to gently swill around the sides. “My father. I just got the news actually. And since I don’t get off work for another few hours, I’m stuck here.” With a wan smile she tugged a set of dog tags out from under her shirt. “These where his. Now I’m glad I’ll have something to remember him by.”

            “I’m sorry,” John said, though he didn’t know why he was apologizing.

            The woman waved a hand before tucking the tags back under her collar. “Thanks, but its good he’s gone. The Dementia and Parkinson’s took him years ago leaving only his body behind.” Bright blue eyes looked him over again sadly. “And you? Who have you lost?”

            John sighed, his heart twisting painfully once more. “My flat mate,” he admitted, shifting his glass so he could stare at the liquid. “Just buried him today in fact.” The woman reached over and squeezed his hand gently. They didn’t need words to share their sadness and loss and John gave her a grateful smile. For the first time in days, he wasn’t being treated like he was made of glass. Sadly, the wonderful feeling of someone just being there was broken by a loud cough. They looked to the sound and the barman caught her gaze and nodded towards the stage.

            Clearly torn, the woman bit her lip then looked back at the resigned John before giving his hand another squeeze. “Do me a favor?” she asked quickly as she got to her feet. “Save me this seat and give me your name. I swear I’ll be back in thirty minutes.” She paused to slam the rest of her drink back before giving him a small smile.

            “Sure, and its John Watson,” John agreed, matching her drink for drink. “What’s yours?”

            The woman’s smile softened every sharp edge she seemed to project around her. His quick eye caught her small wince then knowing smile. Looks like he had another fan here. Great. At least this one wouldn’t be like Molly or Greg, walking on eggshells around him. “Elizabeth. Elizabeth Hill. I’ll be back in thirty minutes John.” Elizabeth traded another look with the barman before she disappeared into the crowd.

            “She must like you,” the barman informed him, popping the cap off a beer bottle and sliding it to the confused John. “Liz never chats up anyone or put them on her tab.”

            John flushed at that. “When did she…”

            “Just now,” the man smiled then nodded to the bottle. “But since you are former military, this one’s on the house. My way of saying thanks.”

            John knew better than to say no and silently accepted the drink and thanks.  Alone once more, John lost himself to his drink and thoughts, going over what happened and trying to figure out where he went wrong. What had he missed? He didn’t know how long he was sitting nursing the beer before Elizabeth’s voice broke through his thoughts. Turning to the stage he looked up at her shocked shocked as he saw her smile out at the crowd, the band behind her stilling from their last song. One he hadn’t even been paying attention too. Now that she saw she had his attention she cleared her throat. “This next song is to my friend and brother in arms John. John, all I ask is that you _listen_ and I hope you are still willing to talk to me afterwards.” Having said her piece she nodded to the lead guitar and let the music play out. 

Take me down to the river bend

Take me down to the fighting end

Wash the poison from off my skin

Show me how to be whole again

             As she sang John fought back a sob and slumped against the bar. He could see himself before he met Sherlock. He had been broken with a psychosomatic limp in his leg and an incurable tremor in his hands. He wanted to be whole. Then his friend introduced him to Sherlock and his life changed for the better.

Fly me up on a silver wing

Past the black where the sirens sing

Warm me up in a nova’s glow

And drop me down to the dream below

            In one day Sherlock had gotten rid of that blasted tremor in his hands and cured him of his silly limp. They had run across the city casing a cab, John forgetting his cane in the restaurant in the rush and chaos. John had later killed said cabbie when Sherlock was going to test his stupid theory of which was the right pill. They had adventures, not matter how crazy Sherlock drove John some days. Or the crazy things he had found in their kitchen. Or the fact that he _always_ got the milk. Sherlock has brought so much to his life, filled it with craziness, chaos, life, _light_ and god above he missed that. So where did that leave him now?

‘Cause I’m only a crack 

In this castle of glass

Hardly anything there for you to see

For you to see

            He wasn’t whole. Sherlock had fixed the cracks before, so was he cracking again? Could people see that small, minute crack in his mask? Is that why Elizabeth chose this song for him? You would think he was _made_ of glass from the actions of Greg, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and even Mycroft in the past few days. Walking on eggshells, not letting him see Sherlock’s body, seemingly waiting for him to crack and shatter. There must be something else, something he missed. In the back of his mind, he heard Sherlock snort. _Of course you missed it, you don’t observe John!_ he heard his friend say.

Bring me home in a blinding dream,

Through the secrets that I have seen,

Wash the sorrow from off my skin

And show me how to be whole again

            John sat up suddenly at that. What _had_ he seen? Really, truly seen? He saw _someone_ falling off the roof top. He had seen _someone_ being wheeled away by the medics into the hospital. He had seen the blood but never had it tested to be sure it was Sherlock’s. He hadn’t seen the body! He had never been allowed. As his brain raced and came up with new thoughts and theories he could nearly see Sherlock’s smile. _Good John,_ he would say. _What do you see? What did you observe?_

‘Cause I’m only a crack

In this castle of glass

Hardly anything for you see

For you to see

            What if Sherlock had faked his death? What if that wiry, skinny basterd was still alive? And John’s belief of his death was that castle of glass? Moriarty must have threatened Sherlock with something more than the loss of his credibility, maybe the lives of those in Sherlock’s life? With that knowledge, John’s mind raced. He had seen the tail he had; the snipers weren’t that concealed thus why he had taken his strange route through town. He had been one of the targets. Mrs. Hudson must have been another target as well. And maybe even Greg was on that list.

‘Cause I’m only a crack

In this castle of glass

Hardly anything else I need to be

‘Cause I’m only a crack 

In this castle of glass

Hardly anything else for you to see

For you to see

For you to see

            John felt a silly smile spread across his lips. Sherlock _had_ to be alive. Because John still was. The stupid git was taking Moriarty’s network apart brick by bleeding brick. John knew why the idiot thought he had to do it alone. He thought he was protecting John and the others. With this knowledge, John just let out a happy laugh and raised the bottle to Elizabeth as she got down from the stage.

            Working her way through the crowd, she smiled when she saw his grin. “I take it my song helped?” she asked as she reclaimed her seat.

            “You have no idea,” John assured her. He knew his grin was quite stupid, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. His friend was alive. “Can I get you a drink in thanks?”

            Elizabeth shook her head at that politely. “No, but there is something you can do for me,” she smiled at him.

            “Anything,” John agreed.

            Elizabeth’s smile grew at that and lit up her whole face. “I read Mr. Holmes’s blog. I know that he’s not a fraud as he’s helped me remember the observation training my father put me through. And, he may never know it, but because of his blog and yours, you two brought me closer to my father before I lost him. Now, all as ask is this. Remember you are not alone. Watson’s Warriors are springing up all over the city. And when he comes back, because God knows he will come back to you John, punch him in the solar plexus for me for making you hurt,” she requested.

            John let out a bark of laughter as he nodded. “I think I can do that. I may even be able to bully him into coming here after I’m done with him,” he agreed amicably.

            Elizabeth smiled happily at that. “Good. Now, I’ve got a flight to catch. My boss agreed to give me the rest of the night off.” John’s eyes widened when she leaned over to envelope him in a strong hug before she places a chaste kiss to his cheek. “I’m one of your Warriors John and our little underground movement will make sure  you are safe and Sherlock is cleared. _We_ know the truth. Semper fi,” she whispered in his ear before pulling away. With a big smile and a jaunty wave Elizabeth disappeared into the crowd once more and was lost from John’s eyes.

            John’s smile never left his lips as he finished his beer. By then Greg Lestrade had come to find him, most likely sent by Mycroft to take him home. Seeing the DI, John slid the bartender a big tip and gathered his coat. Lestrade had finally broken through the thick throng of people and reached his chair with a scowl. “John, what are you doing here? Let’s get you home,” Greg sighed, thinking the silly grin John had was because of the alcohol.

            “Actually, can we pay a visit to Mycroft?” John requested, shrugging the coat on. “I have something I need to express to the man.”  
            When Greg saw that John was quite stable and _not_ using his cane as he had only a few hours before, he was quite concerned that his friend had turned to something else to forget Sherlock’s death. Still, he nodded in agreement. Not wanting to loose the smaller man, he gently latched onto John’s arm and lead them out of the bar. On the street, Greg’s worry grew when John looked right at one of the CCTV cameras and gave it a crazed smile. In a clear voice he said, “I know what really happened to Sherlock, Mycroft.”

            Greg felt his heart leap into his throat at that statement. The confidence and happiness in John’s voice was not normal and he feared the man’s mind had snapped. Greg was about to hail a cab when suddenly a payphone started going off. John still having his crazy smile on his lips, stepped inside and answered it. “I would really like to know what you are implying Mr. Watson,” Mycroft’s cultured voice demanded down the line.

            John’s smile grew as he stared right at the camera that was right across the way. “Sherlock Holmes faked his death, is currently alive, and I _know_ you are helping him.”

            The silence stretched for a long while before Greg’s voice cut through it. “That BASTARD!” Greg swore violently, finally making the same connections John had. John heard Mycroft’s weary sigh and his grin grew. Things just got fun again.

            Unseen by the men folk, hidden by the shadows around the corner, a familiar blond peaked out to give John a smile before putting the finishing touches on her graffiti. The worlds “I Believe in Sherlock Holmes” gleamed out in the light as the artist vanished into the darkness.


End file.
